


At your worst I still believe It's worth the fight

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [8]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Communication, Communication Failure, Established Relationship, First Fight, M/M, NHL All-Star Weekend, but also a tool, connor whisk is also a tool, jack zimmermann is a good friend, kent parson is a tool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: Kent and Whiskey have been together for nearly a year and a half and in that time, they have never once gone to sleep seriously angry with each other. That changes.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 16
Kudos: 154





	1. I'm trying so hard to be mad but so far I'm just really fucking sad

**Author's Note:**

> title is from shut up kiss me by angel olsn
> 
> this fic will be 3 parts and i will post them when i finish them lmao

“Ah, I’m not going this year,” Swoops shrugs. 

They’re standing by the bench at practice, Kent almost spits out his gatorade. 

“Dude, why?”

“I’m old, I need the week off, and besides, why would you want to go to  _ Boston  _ in February.”

Kent looks at him like he’s the biggest moron he’s ever seen. 

“Ohhhhh,” Swoops says, “Yeah I see why you’d be pumped.”

“Tell ‘em you’ll go then, otherwise I’m stuck alone in Boston with Carlsson.”

Swoops grimaces, “I’m sure they won’t make you share a room or anything.”

“Sure as shit they won’t,” Kent furrows his brows. 

“I already promised Kell we’d be in the Bahamas during the all-star break,” Swoops gives him a remorseful look. 

Kent growls. 

“Now come on, I need you to hit me with a slapshot so I can fake an injury.”

“I’m doing this for Kelli, not you,” Kent says. 

The All-Star game only takes up a weekend, but the everyone gets the entire week preceding off. It’s just a giant excuse to get wasted, no one plays defense, so Kent can’t figure out why the fuck Carlsson, the team’s d-man has to come with him. He won the fan vote, so Kent can’t even blame his coaches for saddling them together. They get there a day early to check into hotels and film stuff for social-media. Thank god, Kent has his own room Kent takes some pride in being one of the better dressed guys at these kind of events, so the first thing he does is get out his dry cleaning bags, he brought three suits for the weekend, the usual plain navy ove with a white shirt underneath (he’s pretty sure every guy in the league owns one), the second suit is jewel toned, red, he brought a black dress shirt to wear underneath. It’s a subtle nod to the Aces colours but he also thinks he looks really good in red. The last suit is his most expensive, a black velvet jacket with some floral detailing. He knows he’ll wear that one on the red carpet, flash a smile and make sure his hair’s in place and make the best dressed list with ease. 

Right now though, all he needs is a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt to film a couple videos. He sends Whiskey a picture from the bathroom mirror, sticking his tongue out and smiling. He shoves his phone into his pocket and heads down to the room that their social team has set aside for promo videos. They want Kent and Carly to film some gifs together. Kent summons all of his charm and grins through the video shoot, he does like their social media manager, she’s funny and she keeps telling Carly to sit up straight which Kent enjoys. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket expecting a snap from Whiskey, he just sees the icon that indicates that it’s been opened, no response. He tries not to read too far into it, but Whiskey always texts him back within a couple hours. It’s fine, he shoves his phone in his pocket. It’s objectively fine, people forget to answer their snapchats, it’s just that Whiskey’s not usually one of them. 

“Drinks, Cap?” Carly asks as they walk back up to the floor they’re staying on. 

Kent shrugs, “I think I’m gonna unpack a little more, catch you later maybe,” Kent says, he has no intention of catching Carly later. 

He looks down at his phone, opens the messaging app. Kent is not above a double text at this point in their relationship. 

Kent: did they send the tickets to your email. 

Samwell has a game on Saturday night so he won’t be at the skills competition, but they have plans for the Sunday afternoon all star game, Tango, Ford and Whiskey are coming up for it. 

Whiskey: yeah

Kent: :)

Kent: how’s studying going?

Whiskey: it’s not

Kent: why? I thought you had a test on monday? Do you need me to make flashcards again?

Whiskey: thanks for the offer lol

Whiskey: just a bad day, can’t really focus on much i guess. 

Kent’s heart twists in his chest, out of reflex more than anything. He’s so used to not being able to do anything to help his boyfriend, so used to being too far away for a simple reassuring hug. Then he perks up. He’s a 30 minute drive from Samwell. He can be there before dark. He calls the front desk and asks them to get him a car and within 15 minutes he’s behind the wheel of a black dodge charger and putting Whiskey’s address into the GPS. 

“Text Denice,” he says to his phone. 

“Texting Denice,” the robot voice answers him. 

“No reason in particular, but who’s home right now? Send.”

His phone reads Ford’s response to him in a few seconds. 

“Just me and Whiskey, why?”

“Can you let me in, in about 20 minutes.”

Ford leaves him on read but she does that sometimes when the answer to a question is an obvious “yes” and she just forgets to communicate that. 

He parks a few houses down and jogs up the front steps. 

“Here,” he texts Ford. 

The door swings open. Ford gets up on her toes to hug him. 

“He’s upstairs,” she smiles, “Kind of grumpy today,” she shrugs. 

“Gonna try and fix that,” Kent grins and bounds up the stairs. He can feel Ford rolling her eyes behind him. 

He knocks on Whiskey’s bedroom door. 

“Unless Dex made brownies again, leave me alone,” Whiskey’s voice comes from the other side of the door. 

“Shit, should I have brought brownies?” Kent asks. 

He hears Whiskey drop something and just as soon, the door’s open. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I’d  _ like  _ to be kissing you,” Kent smirks. 

Whiskey looks at him, rolls his eyes, grabs him by the hand and pulls him into his room. He kicks the door closed and puts his hands on Kent’s waist. The press of Whiskey’s lips feels familiar to him, but no less world changing. His world changes every time they kiss because every time they kiss, the world gets better, a world where he’s kissed Connor Whisk one more time. 

“I thought I wasn’t seeing you until Sunday,” Whiskey says. 

“Media stuff took less time than we thought, I wanted to see you,” Kent takes Whiskey’s hands in his and kisses him again. 

“How are you?” Kent asks. 

“Fine,” Whiskey answers. 

Kent tilts his head, “Are you sure, you said when you texted me-”

“So I can’t have a bad day?” Whiskey cuts him off, snippy. 

“I’m not saying that,” Kent says, “I just wanted to… you know, we can try and fix it,” Kent continues. 

Whiskey sighs, “You don’t need to-” he clenches his fist cutting himself off, “You don’t need to fix everything all the time.”

“I just wanted to… be here for you,” Kent says. 

“I don’t want-” Whiskey looks like he’s trying to find the words, “I don’t want you to be here if it’s just to try and solve a problem that you don’t even know for sure exists.”

“Well if there is a problem I want to help you try and fix it.”

“There is no problem,” Whiskey insists, “I just had a shitty day! That’s allowed,” His voice rises slightly with his insistent tone. He’s not yelling, but there is an authoritative quality to his voice that Kent rarely hears. 

“Oh. Okay,” Kent says, he nods, trying his best not to shrink back. He  _ knows  _ that this doesn’t mean that Whiskey doesn’t love him, he’s allowed to be annoyed or grumpy, but the little voice in his head is trying to convince him that Whiskey hates him, that he’s hated him this whole time. 

“If you want to help, leave me alone for like 20 minutes so I can finish these notes,” Whiskey says sharply. 

And, ouch. He knows Whiskey doesn’t mean it to hurt, especially because he instantly softens slightly and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. 

“Tango and Ford are upstairs, I’m sure they want to say hi. No one else is home so you can just go upstairs.”

“Yeah, I’ll come see how you are in a bit then,” Kent says, he tries not to sound too dejected. Whiskey’s allowed to want to be alone, it’s fine. Objectively it makes sense to want a distraction free environment to finish his readings. 

But Kent can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, that Whiskey’s off. And he just wants to fix it. He nods though, gives Whiskey’s hand a squeeze before slipping into the hallway and finding the stairs to the attic. He knocks just in case. 

“It’s open!” Ford calls. 

So Kent walks in. 

“Yo! Dude!” Tango exclaims, he sits up from his bed. 

Ford turns in her desk chair. 

“Whiskey kick you out?” She asks. 

Kent nods, “He’s doing a reading or something.”

“Yeah,” she says, “He’s been acting like a loner all week.”

“He’s probably still bugging out about college free agency,” Tango shrugs. 

“Huh?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey’s still a junior and as far as Kent knew, he had no intention of cutting his time at Samwell short to sign somewhere. 

“He’s been on the phone with his dad and his agent non-stop since the start of this semester, trying to decide whether he wants to stay here or sign now while he has the attention on him.”

“Oh,” Kent says, “I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ford says, “He won’t even talk to us about it.”

“Right,” Kent says. 

The subject gets changed, Kent asks Ford about the winter musical, they rib Tango for his recent bucket hat purchase. But Kent can’t stop thinking about Whiskey, why he wouldn’t tell him what was going on, how it explains how short he’s been these past few days. And Kent decides he can fix it. Of course he can fix this. 

He heads back downstairs later, apparently Nursey, Dex and Chowder go to a poetry thing with Nursey’s english friends on Friday night and then they go to a bar, so Kent’s free to walk between their bedrooms without anyone recognizing him. 

He knocks on the doorframe. Whiskey left his door frame open just a crack so Kent can see him sitting at his desk, he has the palm of his hand resting against his forehead. Kent slips in and closes the door behind him. Whiskey switches tabs and turns around. He’s smiling but Kent can see bags under his eyes.

“Hey!” Kent says, “you finished?”

Whiskey nods. Kent sits down on the edge of Whiskey’s bed, “You look tired,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods, “I pulled an all-nighter to get an essay in on time on Wednesday and it’s still catching up with me.”

Kent pats the mattress next to him, “I’ve been told I’m a good cuddler.”

“That sounds nice,” Whiskey says. 

Kent sits against the pillows at the top of Whiskey’s bed, holds his arms out for Whiskey to crawl into. Whiskey does. Curls up against Kent’s chest, head tucked under Kent’s chin. Kent wraps both of his arms around him, runs his fingers softly over his forearm. 

“Stop, you’re gonna make me fall asleep,” Whiskey elbows him. 

Kent slows his hands, “You could use a nap,” Kent says. 

“What I could use is more practice before tomorrow’s game and an extra week to study for my finance midterm.”

“Sorry I can’t change time,” Kent finds the little curl at the back of Whiskey’s neck and twists it around his finger. 

“I’m just tired,” Whiskey says, “Stressed.”

“Talk about it?” Kent prompts. 

“School’s hard,” Whiskey says, “And the team’s playing really well this season but I can’t stop thinking about if I should stay or go.”

“Go?” Kent asks. 

“It’s early, but my dad wants to know if he should tell my agent to put feelers out. There’s a couple teams, some options.”

Whiskey sighs, he sits up, “I don’t expect you to totally understand.”

Kent cocks his head to the side, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not trying to like…” Whiskey sighs, “It’s fine that you don’t get it. You got drafted. I didn’t, I have to figure this shit out and it’s  _ fine, _ ” an edge creeps into Whiskey’s voice, Kent sits up. 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help,” Kent says, “I still know the league, tell me what teams you’re thinking of.”

“Well first, I don’t really get much of a choice,” Whiskey says. 

“Hey,” Kent says, trying to keep his voice gentle, “You don’t need to-”

“Sorry,” Whiskey sighs, “It’s just…”

“Say what you’re thinking,” Kent says and braces for it to be something he won’t like. 

“You’ve never had to question if you’d have a team,” Whiskey says, “Because you’re wicked good and you came out of Canadian Juniors and everybody wanted to draft you and even if the Aces imploded tomorrow, there’s not a team out there that wouldn’t take you . I don’t have that kind of security or whatever,”

“I-” Kent starts, he was right, he doesn’t like it, but Whiskey’s got a point, “I think you’re good enough to go wherever you want.”

Whiskey sighs deeply, “It doesn’t matter what  _ you  _ think,” he says emphatically, “It matters what scouts think and GMs think and the fact of the matter is not all of them have seen me play, not all of them think I’m the right fit, not all of them think I could hang with the pros.”

“You’re good enough,” Kent says. 

Whiskey groans, he stands up, “That’s not what I’m stressed about!” he raises his voice, clenches his fist, “You think I can do it, that’s great, I think I can do it, awesome. I need to make  _ sure  _ that the right people think that too. And that means playing my best this season, which means training more, which means I have less time for schoolwork unless I stay up to get it done and now I have to make this decision about whether now’s the right time to jump ship at Samwell and try and go pro or if I should wait a year but if I wait a year who knows if the options are still going to be there.”

Kent frowns, he bites his lip, “We can figure it out.”

He sees Whiskey’s jaw clench, like he’s biting back a sentence, it tumbles out anyway, “This isn’t a  _ we  _ thing,” he says. 

“What do you mean?” Kent asks. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says firmly, Kent senses a “but” coming, “I need this to be a hockey decision though. I can’t let anything else cloud my judgement. I need to figure out what the best option for my career is and go from there.”

“Okay,” Kent says, he feels like he’s been punched, not by Whiskey, necessarily, but something’s knocked the wind out of him, made him feel smaller, “I think…” Kent starts, “I think you should make the decision based on more than just hockey. Your friends, school.”

“You?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent shrugs, “Some things are more important than hockey.”

“It’s easier for you to say that,” Whiskey insists, animosity in his voice, “When you already have it. You already have it. You did it. I just need to make sure I give myself the same kind of opportunity.”

Kent nods, he stands up, puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder, he doesn’t want to lecture him about how hockey isn’t the most important thing, because he has the self awareness to realize that Whiskey’s right. 

“You’re way too stressed about this,” Kent says. 

Whiskey tears away from Kent’s hand. 

“Kent,” he says, “This is the biggest decision I’ve had to make in a long time. I feel like I’m the right amount of stressed.”

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Kent says. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Whiskey says. 

Kent sighs, he sits down on Whiskey’s bed again, looks down at his hands. 

“I could talk to our scouts,” Kent says, “Make sure they see your tape.”

Whiskey’s eyes go wide, his brow quickly furrows, lips parted. 

“I can’t believe you’d even make that offer,” Whiskey says, Kent hears disgust in his voice. 

“Do you not want to play in Vegas?” Kent asks, offended and a little bit hurt. 

“No,” Whiskey says firmly, “Not like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want to sign somewhere that wants me because I’m good, not somewhere that’s going to sign me because my boyfriend told them to!”

“That’s not what I was… they’d still have to decide whether they wanted you or not. I don’t have that much sway,” he says, a joke, trying to lighten the mood. 

Whiskey’s mood stays dark though. 

“I don’t want  _ any  _ of your sway,” he burts, “Okay?”

“I just…” Kent bites his own lip, “Don’t you want to play together?”

“Not if it happens like that!” Whiskey shouts this time. 

Kent jumps back, clenches his fist without realizing it, unclenches it when he realizes that’s what he did. 

“Why does it matter how it happens?” Kent shouts back, “I want to play with you, I want to be with you? You want that too, why wouldn’t you take that opportunity?”

“I don’t want an opportunity if it’s because you handed it to me!”

Kent presses the pads of his thumbs to the pads of his middle and index fingers, his jaw clenches, “God you’re so stubborn and proud! I just want us to be happy!” he shouts. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “You want us to do things your way. This is my life not yours, my decision!”

“Am I not a part of your life anymore?”

“That’s not what I said!”

Their voices rise and Kent quickly realizes that Tango and Ford can probably hear them. 

Kent crosses his arms, “I’m just trying to help you,” Kent says. 

“And I’m telling you that you have a pathological need to  _ fix  _ everything and this is not the time! .”

“I don’t-”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not trying to fix things. I care! I guess you just don’t care! It feels like you don’t care!” Kent gestures between the two of them.

“Kent,” Whiskey’s eyes go wide, like he can’t believe that Kent just said that, for his part, Kent’s also surprised that he said something so harsh. Whiskey’s mouth moves like he wants to say something, but he can’t. 

“I’m gonna go,” Kent says, he’s biting back tears. 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Whiskey turns away from him. 

Kent slips out the door, closes it behind him. He hears Whiskey’s breath tremble at the last second. He almost turns around, throws the door open, takes Whiskey in his arms and tells him he’s sorry. Almost. 

Instead he runs down the stairs, walks out the front door as fast as he can without actually jogging, and speed walks to his car. He doesn’t start crying until he gets to the highway. 

Kent’s intentions were good, he knows they were good. Whiskey’s happy when they get to spend time together, he gave him an option that would let them really be together long term. 

For the first time in almost a year and a half, they go to bed angry at each other. Kent sleeps like shit. He tosses and turns and he wakes up and checks his phone and refreshes Snapchat because he can’t  _ stand  _ that Whiskey’s angry at him. And honestly, he can’t stand being angry at Whiskey either. He knows he could call or text but he doesn’t want to be the first one. How long does it take Whiskey to cool off? He doesn’t really know, they’ve never fought like that before. 

He cries until he can't keep his eyes open anymore.


	2. Love lasts so long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being an NHL All-Star is a colossal pain in the ass, especially when all you can think about is the fight you had with the love of your life last night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics are from seven by tswift because i can

He doesn’t have time to think in the morning, because he’s woken up by a courtesy call scheduled by the media team. He meets Carlsson in the suite, he has his dry cleaning bag slung over his shoulder. Someone takes it from him and hands him a paper cup of coffee.

“Jesus, Parser,” Carly gives him a once over, “You look like shit.”

Kent flips him off as a makeup artist walks up to him and starts putting some kind of powder on his eyebags. 

“Thought you weren’t gonna go drinking,” Carlsson smirks. 

There are a few other guys in the suite, they’re sharing with the reps from San Jose and Houston. They’re fine guys, Kent’s not paying them much attention. 

All Star Game Media is pretty simple. They have to walk the red carpet, act like they flew in this morning. Usually there’s a kid mixed in with the media for a gag, the kid no doubt ends up asking the best questions of the media availability. He’ll shake some hands, sign some autographs, smile at kids and then they’ll all be whisked back to the hotel to film a Puck Personality (oxymoron) video for the NHL YouTube channel and get asked “fun and quirky” questions by whatever beat reporters were green enough to show up in Boston. 

Once they make Kent look less gaunt, he slips his suit on, the one with the crushed velvet jacket and is escorted to a car. 

“Pick up a puck bunny or something, Parser?” Carlsson mutters as their car pulls up to the red carpet. There are signs, indicating player teams and their names for the reporters from the local news network who neve cover sports to know who they are. Kent stands underneath of his. He can smile, he can charm. And he does. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he’s directed to go talk to the kid interviewer. He crouches down beside her so he can hear her question, even laughs when she asks, “Who’s taking care of your cat right now?”

Kent grins, flashes his teeth to the camera, “Well, I have some very good teammates who happen to like hanging out with my cat more than they like hanging out with me sometimes, so she’s staying with a teammate.”

“Which one?” she asks follow ups better than half the beat reporters here. 

Kent laughs, “Scraps,”

She looks at the camera, “You heard it hear first folks.”

“You did a great job,” Kent pats her on the shoulder before they make him move on.  Different reporters ask him about Swoops’ ‘injury’ that kept him out of the game, Kent tries not to smirk too hard as he tells them he expects him to come back healthy, just needs some time to “rest up”

Someone asks him about Jack, which they always do. Their divisional teams are playing each other in the first game on Sunday. 

“Let’s just say I have no intention of blocking any of his one-timers this weekend,” Kent gives his practiced answer. 

The red carpet ends soon enough, then they’re whisked away to the hotel. Different broadcasters are set up in the suites in the hotel. Kent waits to be directed into them. They shoot a bunch of puck personality questions where Kent answers such interesting questions as “heel to toe or toe to heel” and “would you rather wear wet equipment or play without a cup” and “who chirps the most in the league” and “what gatorade do you have on the bench”

They blur together at a certain point, but he starts to pay attention again when he walks into the ESPN room and Jack’s already standing in there. 

The producer walks up to Kent and hands him a bottle of water, “We were hoping to do a joint interview between the two of you, since your both captains of your all-star teams.”

Yeah, that’s why they want to interview them together. It’s his last interview of the day and Kent’s done putting up fights about anything. 

They sit down together, and it’s honestly not that bad. They carefully sidestep the draft and even make some jokes at each other’s expense. It’s the last question that trips Kent up. 

“Kent, I’m sure you know, Jack became quite a sensation when he won his Stanley cup nearly two years ago. It was an important moment in the NHL, what was your reaction, as a friend?”

“Uhhh,” Kent starts. 

“Kenny texted me,” Jack says, “After the videos started making it online.”

Kent nods, he feels like a coward for not saying more. 

“You’re always happy whenever an old buddy gets his cup, I know what that feels like, so it was good to see that Zimms had good people to share that moment with.” Kent says.

He knows they’re not giving them anything they want, nothing good, no soundbite, he doubts this question even makes it into the final cut.

They’re taking their microphones off when Kent looks over at Jack. 

“You done for the day?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “I was just gonna hang out in my room until the skills competition.”

Kent’s participating in the fastest skater competition tonight, won’t be going up against Jack in anything except the accuracy competition. Jack’s not a fast guy, which is why he’s doing the hardest shot comp instead. 

“Do you wanna chill together?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, why not,” Jack shrugs. 

They wait until they get back to Kent’s floor before they start talking about anything that actually matters. 

“Is Bits with you?” Kent asks. 

Jack shakes his head, “He’ll come for the game tomorrow but he’s not staying with me.”

Kent nods. 

“Samwell has a game today, do you want to watch?” Jack asks.

“Still keeping track of the schedule?” Kent ribs. 

“Still got friends there,” Jack shrugs,”I figured you’d want to, since, you know,” Jack says. 

Kent nods, he stops in front of his door and swipes his keycard. The door opens and both men throw their suit jackets in the closet. 

“Beer?” Kent asks. 

“Why not,” Jack shrugs. 

He turns the TV onto the NCAA channel and finds Samwell’s afternoon game. Jack props himself up against the hotel bed’s headboard

Kent throws a beer at Jack’s chest, Jack pops the top and takes a sip. 

Kent stands, leaning against the wall, the first period is already halfway done and no one’s scored. He scans the ice for Whiskey out of instinct. 

“You can sit on the bed,” Jack says. 

“Right,” Kent says, “Is it weird. It feels weird, is it weird that I think it’s weird?” Kent asks. 

“I’ve stopped trying to figure out what things are weird between us by now,” Jack says. 

Kent snorts. 

The bed is more than big enough that they can sit together without even brushing hands accidentally. Kent knows he doesn’t want Jack in that way anymore, he’s more worried about Jack’s comfort than anything else. 

So they sit, they drink their beers and they watch the end of the first. Still no score. 

Kent’s biting his tongue. His beer is half gone. He turns to Jack. 

“Do you and Bitty ever fight?”

“All the time,” Jack takes another sip of his beer, “I mean not  _ all  _ the time, but we bicker, we disagree.”

“I don’t mean like that,” Kent says, “Like really bad. Like where you say things you wish you’d never said.”

“Did something happen with-”

“Can you answer the question first.”

So Jack nods, “Less often but we do. If we’re both stressed or not communicating. Now answer my question.”

Kent just nods, “We’ve never…” he takes a breath, “Never fought like that before.”

Jack nods, “I get it. You didn’t break up over it, right?”

“No,” Kent says, “I have no intention of…” he trails off. 

Jack gives another little nod, it’s quiet for a second. They look up to see a muscle MLK commercial on TV.

“I called him stubborn,” Kent says, not looking at Jack.

“Isn’t he?” Jack smirks. 

“It was the way I said it though,” Kent shakes his head, “Like I was being mean on purpose.”

“Oh yeah, you’d never be mean to anyone on purpose,” Jack rolls his eyes. 

“Sorry abou-”

Jack cuts him off, “Don’t do that, we’ve already done that, I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Okay good. I missed you being a dick to me.”

Jack chuckles. 

“He also told me I have a ‘pathological need to fix things’” Kent says. 

“Well…”

“Hey!” Kent punches him in the shoulder. 

“I’m not saying he has a point, but he has a point.”

“Ugh, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of you figuring your shit out,” Jack points out. 

Kent grumbles. 

“You do kind of jump right into solving other people’s problems before they even ask for your help.”

“Because I’m good at it!” Kent protests. 

“Sure,” Jack says, “Not everyone wants that though. What were you even fighting about?”

“He’s stressed because of midterms and the season and his dad wants to tell his agent to start looking into pro contracts. So I told him I could get our scouts to look at his tape.”

Jack lets out a low whistle. 

“I get why he was pissed. But then I was pissed because he didn’t even take a  _ second  _ to consider it. Like, I dunno. I’d do anything to be closer to him. I guess, in the moment, I felt like he wasn’t on that same page.”

“You know he is,” Jack says. 

Kent nods, “Yeah,”

“Game’s back on,” Jack points at the TV. 

Kent nods. He looks up. Whiskey’s taking the faceoff, he sees a couple new faces on the blueline, freshmen probably. Whiskey wins the faceoff, he’s been practicing them, Kent knows because he’s once again worried about how much extra time his boyfriend spends on the ice practicing. 

“I like that he’s stubborn, most of the time,” Kent says. 

Jack hums in acknowledgement. 

“His work ethic and determination, he doesn’t let other people push him around and I like that about him.”

“But he’s never been stubborn with you?” Jack asks. 

“Not even that,” Kent muses, he looks up at the screen, “Smart pass,” he interrupts himself complimenting one of the third liners, “He’s so stubborn when he gets his mind set on something, but this was different I guess. Like he’s making this big life decision and he wasn’t talking to me about it and it felt like that meant I wasn’t an important enough part of his life,” Kent sighs deeply. 

“Do you think maybe that’s why you got pissed.”

Kent shrugs. He thinks about it while they watch the game. 

“Nice glove Chowder,” he hears Jack mutter after a particularly great catch. 

The second period ends and both teams are still deadlocked without a goal, Jack turns to Kent. 

“You love him,” Jack says. 

“So fucking much,” Kent agrees..

“When’s the last time you talked?”

“Last night, when we fought,” Kent mumbles. 

“You text?”

Kent shakes his head, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Hmm,” Jack says, “Bits and I always text each other good night even if we’re mad at each other, maybe try that? You definitely need to talk though.”

Kent nods. 

“Is he coming to the games tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I mean I think so. I don’t know where we stand now.”

Jack shrugs, “Ask?”

Kent groans, “That’s haaaaard.”

“Yeah you moron, if it was easy everyone would have a perfect relationship.”

“Are you saying I have a perfect relationship.”

“It’s a damn near thing,” Jack says. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “I don’t want to steal the thunder from the gay hockey poster boys.”

“Wow,” Jack says. 

Kent smirks. 

‘You should talk about it though. It’s fine to argue but don’t let it simmer.”

Kent just nods. 

The third period starts. They both lean forward out of habit. Nothing happens until the final five minutes of the game. Kent watches Whiskey receive a pass on the backhand, pulls it to his forehand. He runs out of room, circles around the back of the net, he wraps his stick around the post and wills the puck into the back of the net. Kent and Jack celebrate, they high five and they both let out a little cheer. Kent opens his messages out of habit. He looks down at his keyboard uselessly. 

“I dunno what to say.”

“Good goal?” Jack asks. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “Yeah.”

Kent: that was a sick goal

“Real poetic,” Jack says.

Kent elbows Jack in the ribs. 

Kent: love you

“Hmm, better,” Jack says. 

“Fuck off,” Kent laughs. 

Jack joins in as the game winds down. Samwell wins 1-0. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass tonight,” Jack says. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “Oh yeah sure, Mr. can’t shoot top-left to save his life.”

“Hey!” Jack says, “I’ve been practicing.”

“Worried I’m gonna win?”

“Nope,” Jack says. 

“May the best captain win,” Kent smirks. 

Kent’s phone buzzes in his hand. 

Whiskey: I’ll see you tomorrow

Kent studies the text. He knows Whiskey can be short immediately after his games. He bites down on his tongue. He needs to tell himself it’ll be okay. Jack puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder, smiles for him. 

“I’ve gotta get dressed,” Jack stretches his legs and jumps off Kent’s bed. 

“Thanks,” Kent says. 

“For what?” Kent asks. 

“Being like… I dunno good at talking.”

“Well,” Jack says, “It took me long enough to figure it out. So.”

“I’ll see you tonight Zimmermann.”

“Friendship temporarily put on pause,” Jack gives him a fake stern look, “Y’know, so I can kick your ass.”

“Oh yeah sure,” Kent rolls his eyes, jokingly shoves Jack out his door. 

He picks up his phone. Whiskey sent him four words, but they fill him with hope, a little bit of dread.

He bites down on his lip. He loves him so much that it hurts. He has to play though. He has to put on his suit jacket and head to a game. 

He likes the skills competition more than the game itself. The guys joke on the ice and chirp and Kent gets to wear his own Aces jersey instead of the All Star jerseys that always look lame. 

He has to sit next to Carlsson, but he’s in a pretty good mood today, more well behaved since they’re in unfamiliar territory. 

The first event is fastest skater. Kent kneels on the ice with all the other participants as they announce the rules. He sees Jack lean over the bench. He’s the second shortest guy taking part but he knows his edge work in the corners can help him out. He claps for the guys in front of him. Lets out a low whistle when someone comes in under 12 seconds, then it’s his turn. 

Kent stands at the line. Bursts off, his first turn is smooth. He starts to feel the burn in his legs and he digs in to it. He crosses the line and that’s when he falls. Trips over the blue line and slides onto his ass. He hears chirping and laughs coming from the bench. 

He grins and laughs at himself, he shrugs as he looks up at the scoreboard. Parson #1. He sees the camera pointed at him. He winks. He thinks about Whiskey somewhere, hopefully watching. It worked once, winking at the camera but directing him at Whiskey. 

He skates back to the bench. Jack claps him on the shoulder. The last guy goes, comes in over 14 seconds. Kent wins. 

“Looks like I’m one for three, Zimms, sure hope your slapshot holds up,” Kent smirks at his old friend. 

Jack, fuelled by a competitive spirit, crushes everyone with his shot. All Kent can do is hope Jack’s top-shelf shot is as bad as he remembers. 

“Loser buys the drinks?” Kent asks. 

“You’re on, Parson,” Jack smirks. 

Neither one of them wins the competition,some rookie from the Schooners takes it, but Jack finishes ahead of Kent and Kent is forced to reluctantly buy the first round at the bar. 

It’s a good night, Kent even manages to have a good time, he does shots with Mashkov at Jack’s insistence. Their on ice animosity turns into off-ice competitiveness. 

“Startin’ to think you’re trying to give me a hangover so we can’t beat you tomorrow,” Kent slurs with his arm around Mashkov’s shoulder. 

“Do ‘nother shot and we see,” Mashkov smirks. 

“Only if you’re joining me big guy.”

They do vodka shots, Kent’s been blurry for hours now, but he’s smiling. He plays a round of darts, loser buys more drinks. His credit card statement is going to be a mess this month. 

He ends up squeezed between Carly and Jack in the uber back to the hotel, leans closer to Jack since Carlsson is a dick about that kind of stuff. 

He stumbles to his door. Waves goodnight to Jack. He intends to sleep for as long as he can. 

Kent: Goodnight

Whiskey: good night. 

He looks down at the cool blue light of his phone screen. It vibrates next to his face one last time just as he’s drifting off. 

Whiskey: i love you. 

It feels tense and it feels weird, but Whiskey had to type those three words. And they’re going to talk and Kent’s going to hug him and they’ll figure things out, because they have to, because it’s them, because Kent literally doesn’t know what he’ll do if they don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F R I E N D S H I P


	3. Shut up kiss me, hold me tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent can't stop thinking about Whiskey. Whiskey can't stop thinking about Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title once again by shut up kiss me by angel olsen

Kent’s going to kill Alexei Mashkov. Once he finds a bottle of gatorade and drinks it in one go. He groans into his pillow. His arm’s ridiculously sore for reasons he can’t quite remember why. Kent’s no stranger to the concept of drinking to excess until he forgets his problems, which is what he did last night, whether he realized it at the time. It’s an easy distraction, but the same way that his hangover slams into him in the morning, so too does the realization that he still has to figure this out with Whiskey. 

He wants to apologize, he’ll apologize for every word, he’ll take them all back if it means he can stop feeling like this. He wants Whiskey in Vegas, more than anything he just wants them to be close, for this distance they’ve been dealing with to get shorter. But he’ll take it back, he’ll apologize. 

He finds a bottle of water in the minibar and gulps it down. He heads down to the dining room to grab breakfast. He scans the room, no Carlsson which is a perk, he spots Jack and Mashkov sitting at one of the tables. Mashkov looks infuriatingly functional, cracking jokes with Jack (who Kent is pretty sure hasn’t been hungover since the Falcs cup parade). 

Kent puts a couple slices of toast on his plate and picks up a pre-made banana smoothie with chocolate protein powder. He sits with the Falcs, probably would have even if Carlsson were around. 

“Morning!” Mashkov says, chipper. 

“Fuck off,” Kent groans. 

Jack snorts into his bowl of oatmeal, “You guys kept going after I left, huh?”

“Tragically,” Kent rolls his eyes, “Do you have any idea why my arm feels like it got ran over?” he takes a timid bite of his toast. 

“You fall,” Mashkov says. 

“Off of?” Jack prompts.

“Table,” Mashkov shrugs. 

Kent sighs, “I don’t wanna know anything else.”

He sees Jack looking at him, head tilted slightly to the side, but Jack doesn’t say anything until Mashkov gets up to go talk trash with some other russians. 

“Did you black out?” Jack asks, voice a little lower than otherwise. 

“Must have,” Kent rubs his eyes, “A little. I’m okay,” Kent says. 

Jack shrugs, “You always were a lightweight.”

“Fuck you,” Kent grumbles. 

“Hey, I’m just glad for the advantage, we’ll kick your ass today.”

“You actually give a fuck about the all-star game.”

“I like bragging rights,” Jack says. 

“Well don’t expect me to block shots today.”

“It’s three on three, no one’s playing defense.”

Kent chokes down the rest of his breakfast while Jack fills him in on all the Eastern-conference gossip. For someone who’s almost always painfully out of the loop, he knows a lot about what’s going on in the league. Kent suspects it has something to do with Bob. 

Kent takes a deep breath before he heads out for the day. He lint rolls his red suit, looks himself once over in the mirror and shrugs. He throws on a pair of sunglasses even though it’s been overcast all weekend. He doubts he’ll be the only guy rocking hangover shades. 

He spent three hours last night, not thinking about Whiskey and it’s like his brain is trying to punish him for that. He walks down the red carpet and signs a jersey. He thinks about the bite that had been in his voice when he called Whiskey stubborn. He smiles for one of the PR cameras, he thinks about the shaky breath Whiskey had taken before he’d left the house. He thinks about apologizing to Whiskey, taking it all back, what he’d do if Whiskey doesn’t accept the apology. He tapes his tick and he thinks about how Whiskey’s probably in the building by now. He tunes out Carlsson talking about how he “picked up” last night and instead wonders if Whiskey’s shifting in the arena seat as much as Kent is shifting in his stall.

There’s never any strategy to these games anyway, but if their Special Guest Alumni Coach says anything important, Kent doesn’t hear it because he’s thinking about Whiskey. 

Everything seems to take twice as long, the player introductions, the anthem. He stands behind the canuck that he’d shared the media suite with yesterday while he takes the faceoff against Jack. He doesn’t scan the crowd for Whiskey because he knows he’ll just be disappointed. 

He takes a breath, No matter what, he has to be here for sixty minutes, he might as well try a little. 

The canuck wins the faceoff and immediately drops a pass to Kent. So Kent lets the muscle memory take over. There’s more space for him to work with just three players on each team, so it’s easy to take the puck over the blue line. He gets the first shot of the game and the first goal of the game when he takes a dramatic and unnecessary slapshot that the atlantic team’s goalie doesn’t really try hard to dive in front of. 

He hears clapping and cheering from his own bench and the fans around him. He hopes Whiskey’s somewhere cheering. 

Whiskey is. Ford looks over at him with a hopeful look in her eye as the three of them jump up and clap. Whiskey wore the Aces jersey that Kent gave him when they first started talking. He gives her a stern look and she shrugs wordlessly. 

Whiskey cried last night. A bottle of wine split between the three friends and the tears started flowing and Ford left to go find the pretzels she hid in the kitchen so they had something to eat while Whiskey vented. And Whiskey just buried his face in her pillow in the attic and screamed. 

“Don’t you think you both had points?” Tango asked when Whiskey was finally done explaining the fight. 

And of course Tango made it simple, because Tango makes everything simple and Whiskey thinks that’s kind of his superpower. And Whiskey just cried more, because he’s thinking about Kent, his pathological need to fix things, their arguments, his fighting words. And even at his worst, at his most annoying and angry and self-destructive, Whiskey still thinks Kent is the best thing in the world. 

And Kent scores and he celebrates and he smiles and Whiskey’s been loving him so hard and for so long that he can kind of see through all the cockiness and swagger on the ice. If this had been a year ago, Whiskey might have assumed that Kent didn’t care, might have gotten angry. But now he knows that the swagger’s a show for the camera, something he can try to see through.

They sit back down to watch the play. Kent skates to the bench and although Whiskey tries to watch the play, he keeps staring at the back of Kent’s jersey, they way he leans into the guy next to him to talk about their next move, the way he laughs when someone tells a joke. The way he inches away from Carlsson. 

He’s angry, still. That’s the worst part, he knows he can’t bend on this and he’s mad at Kent for asking him to, but also, not calling him to say goodnight is something he never wants to have to experience again. 

Long story short, Kent and the pacific team lose. It’s a high scoring, low defense game, but it’s for fun anyway. Jack and the Atlantic team score eleven goals and by the final minutes of the third it’s pretty clear they should pull their goalie. So they do. Kent watches as the Atlantic guys keep passing to their goalie, trying to get him a goal. The Atlantic goalie skates out of the net, and Kent’s the guy at the blue line, and he figures what the hell, he might as well do something fun, so as the goalie comes toward him, Kent drops his stick and gloves. He holds up his finger to signal “just a second” and bends down to re-tie his skates. He hears Jack laughing from the bench, he hears laughter from the crowd. Whiskey, hopefully. 

The final horn blows and all the guys on the ice meet to shake hands and Jack gloats and Kent, predictably gets pulled aside for a Sportsnet interview where they ask him about his skates and he says, “well y’know. When you gotta tie ‘em, you gotta tie ‘em.” And he heads back to the locker room, throws a puck at a kid in the stands on his way. Really, Kent thinks he won the best prize, which is not having to play again today. He sees Ford before he sees Whiskey. They’re standing outside the locker room, all wearing credentials around their necks. Ford stands out because no one else is wearing a bright pink hair bow. Kent hasn’t showered yet and he hasn’t put his suit back on. He’s wearing a pair of adidas slides. 

Whiskey’s standing with his hands in his pockets. Kent stands about two paces away from him with his arms open, shoulders hunched. 

“Hi,” Kent says. 

“Hi,” Whiskey answers. 

“Jack!” Tango says and pulls Ford away from the pair.

Whiskey laughs dryly. 

“Good game,” Whiskey says. 

“I stopped to tie my skate for a joke,” Kent says. 

“Good show then,” Whiskey says. He still hasn’t looked Kent in the eyes. 

He looks up, meets Kent’s gaze, his deep brown eyes look sad and Kent can see the same bags under Whiskey’s eyes as he has under his and Kent almost cries again, right there in the hallway. 

“Can we go somewhere?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods, “let’s uh,” he says, “hotel’s just up the block, but uh, I have to get my stuff first.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says, simply. 

Kent has never showered and put on a suit so quickly. 

“Are you supposed to stay?” Whiskey asks, “I don’t see anyone else going.”

“I don’t care,” Kent says quickly. 

And he watches Whiskey swallow nervously, “My car’s in the parking garage,” he says. 

Whiskey nods. 

Kent hates how quiet this is, how he can think about what they’d normally be doing, talking and joking and giving each other a hard time, but right now, all there is is silence, tension in the air as Whiskey gets into the same car that Kent had taken to the Haus only to fight with Whiskey and maybe fuck up the best thing in his life. And they don’t say anything in the car. Whiskey doesn’t reach for the radio like he normally does. Kent parks outside the hotel, but neither makes a move to get out of the car. 

“I’m glad you came,” Kent finally says. 

“I almost didn’t,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods. 

“I didn’t know if you’d want me here,” Whiskey says. 

Kent turns to him, “I’d want you here no matter what,” he says, doesn’t even have to think about it, it’s not a question, “I always…” he trails off, wondering if what he’s about to say is too much. And then he remembers it’s Whiskey, “I always want you here.”

Whiskey nods, he’s breathing shallow, looking ahead at the cement of the parking garage. 

“That’s uh, me too,” Whiskey nods. 

Kent takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. Swallow his pride, save his relationship. 

“Come upstairs?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods. It’s quiet in the elevator and it’s quiet in the hallway and as Kent unlocks the door and he’s pretty sure it’s the first time they’ve walked into a hotel room without kissing. 

Whiskey walks into the hotel room. And he just stands there, in the middle. Kent puts his hands into the pockets of his slacks and looks down at the floor. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kent says, “When I came back here after we fought, I just couldn’t sleep. I don’t ever want to go to bed without saying goodnight to you again, so I’ll take it all back, everything I said, all of it. You were right it’s your life it’s not my place-”

Whiskey cuts him off. 

“Kent,” Whiskey says, “Don’t do that. You…” he trails off, “I’m not…” Whiskey looks for words, Kent waits, “I’m not going to break up with you because there’s something you want or something we disagree about. I know it’s hard but I want you to stop being afraid of that so we can talk. It’s… we got lucky that we didn’t have to make some huge life decision sooner, that there wasn’t something bigger to disagree about. I just need you to know that. You’re allowed to ask for things. And the other day I was so in my own head that I forgot that.”

Kent takes a minute to let that hit him. How much of his apology came from fear? How much of him is used to appeasing people. 

“I was stressed out. I still am, but the way you feel matters,” Whiskey says, “I should have listened.”

“I should have listened too,” Kent says, “You were trying to tell me something.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey scratches the back of his neck. 

Kent takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms. 

“It is important to me that I do this on my own,” Whiskey says, “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t tell you what I’m thinking about or what’s going on.”

Kent bites down on his lip, “It’s still your choice to make.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “You were right that you’re a part of my life though, a  _ big  _ one,” Whiskey says, “I said it isn’t a we thing and I keep thinking about that because it’s not what I meant.”

“It’s your decision at the end of the day,” Kent says. 

“And I want you to help me make it.”

“Okay,” Kent says simply, “You were right that I shouldn’t try to fix everything all the time,” Kent says. 

“And you were right that I’m stubborn.”

“I love that about you,” Kent says. 

“And I love that you want to help people.”

Kent feels tears pricking behind his eyes. This isn’t like any conversation he’s had before. He’s so used to putting what other people need first, so used to steamrolling past his own needs to give someone else what they need. To be the only one apologizing. 

Kent takes a step forward, hesitant, Whiskey does the same. They lock eyes and with the same thought, they pull each other into a tight embrace. Kent rest his chin on Whiskey’s shoulder. Takes a deep, clear breath for the first time in days. Whiskey’s always felt solid and Kent’s especially sure not to take that for granted right now. Kent’s hands ball up around the fabric of Whiskey’s Aces jersey, he feels Whiskey’s hands smoothing the wrinkles on the back of his dress shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Whiskey’s voice is muffled and choked but Kent furiously nods against his chest anyway. 

“Me too,” Kent says, vice equally muffled. 

“Can I kiss you?” Whiskey asks.

“Yes,” Kent says immediately, “Always.”

Whiskey’s hand slides up Kent’s back, gently traces the seam of Kent’s shirt, he’s taking his time, fingertips grazing his neck, thumb pressing against the underside of Kent’s jaw. Kent just moves, pliant, happy to have Connor’s hands on him, once again directing the flow of movement. 

“Connor,” Kent whispers, a rare use of his boyfriends first name, he’s baby in private and Whiskey in public, but Kent doesn’t know if he’s earned the right to have baby back yet.

Whiskey places a kiss so gently on the side of Kent’s neck that he shudders. Kent tilts his head back, not realizing but wanting Whiskey to give him more. He feels teeth graze against his neck, feels teeth graze against the bottom of his jaw, and his cheek. He feels something against his lips, not Whiskey’s lips, but his thumb. Kent’s lips fall open, a jagged breath through his nose. And then Whiskey gets swept up in it too. Both hands on either side of Kent’s face, pressing their lips together. Giving Kent an apology, accepting Kent’s, tongue sweeping over Kent’s bottom lip, Kent, shuddering. He wraps both arms around Whiskey’s torso. Whiskey’s hands sink lower and he picks Kent up, Kent jumps, wrapping his legs around Whiskey’s waist. 

He feels Whiskey balk under his weight, but he’s strong and steady, even as he’s taking steps to the bed. And Kent kisses the side of Whiskey’s face, his thumb traces his jawline, his hairline, his nose, every part of his face that he can reach. Whiskey throws him on the bed, not roughly or anything. It’s more goofy, more fun. More in the way that makes Kent bounce when he hits the mattress and Whiskey jumps in after him. Kent rolls over on top of him, kissing him into the mattress. 

Kent expected the first time they have sex after a fight to be rough. He expected Whiskey to take out some kind of anger on him, to tell him to shut up or make him shut up. But Whiskey doesn’t do that. He’s gentle and doting and he kisses Kent more than he fucks him, honestly. And Kent wants to have his arms around Whiskey for the rest of time, to hang on for dear life and look him in the eyes and to moan and tell him he’s doing so good and he loves him and he’s sorry and he never wants to fight again and he’d do anything for him. 

Whiskey has a quick shower, leaves Kent blissed out and almost half asleep on the bed. When he comes back he hands Kent a washcloth and climbs into bed wearing one of the fuzzy hotel robes. And Kent wipes himself down so that he’s not gross or sweaty or sticky, and then, at Whiskey’s request, he curls up against the soft fabric of the hotel robe.

“You were right about me not getting it,” Kent says, “I don’t,” he says, “I don’t know what it’s like to wonder where you’re going to end up or if you’re going to be wanted.”

Whiskey’s hands smooth over Kent’s bare shoulder. 

“I know I’m wanted,” Whiskey says, “By you.”

Kent smiles into the fabric, “Always,” Kent says, “Not just me though. Samwell wants you,” he says. 

He feels Whiskey stiffen but nod anyway.

“And I know your friends want you,” Kent continues, “and it’s not my decision to make, but it’s just my opinion. Is another year at Samwell really so bad?” Kent asks. 

“I thought you wanted me in Vegas?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent shakes his head, “Not if it means stealing you from your team and your friends,” Kent says. 

“Not stealing,” Whiskey mutters. 

“I want you to do what makes you happy. Baby,” Kent says, “Baby, how happy does the idea of leaving Samwall make you?”

He feels Whiskey thinking. 

“Not very,” Whiskey says, “It feels like quitting. Like three years worth of class doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“But what if I don’t have the options next year?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent shakes his head, “You’re too good not to have options.”

“But what if?”

“Then we’ll take every single penny I’ve ever earned and we’ll move to iceland and I’ll fish for food and you can find a job doing whatever it is you do with a communications degree.”

Kent missed the sound of Whiskey’s laugh. Not the dry one, the real one from his belly. 

“And I’ll play with your hair until you go bald.”

“I am  _ never  _ going bald, so jot that down,” Kent says. The bitchy remarks return, and they aren’t filled with animosity. 

He feels Whiskey’s fingers in his hair, twisting two strangs against each other and he hums. 

“I should have asked you sooner. Told you at least.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Kent says. 

“I was in such a bad mood that day. Talking to my dad makes me into a worse person I think.”

“I love you at your worst,” Kent says. 

“That’s a bold claim,” Whiskey says, a hesitancy in his voice.

“I don’t  _ want  _ you to be at your worst, but when you are, I’m still gonna love you through it,” Kent clarifies. 

He feels Whiskey nuzzle against his head. 

“Did you wink at me? At the skills competition?” Whiskey asks. 

“You were watching,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“I hoped you’d see that.”

“So that first game I watched after we started talking, when you winked at the camera, was that for me too?”

“I liked you even then. Even after a couple messages. Thought it was hopeless though,” Kent says. 

“We’ll never be hopeless,” Whiskey says. 

His statement is punctuated by a long silence as Kent really let’s that sink in. Never. 

“I was talking to Jack,” Kent says, “Because he was here.”

“You’re still good friends?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I needed someone to talk to and he’s uh, gotten good at listening. I was asking about him and Bitty and he said that they fight but they always say goodnight to each other, no matter what. Can we do that? No matter what happens?”

“Please,” Whiskey says. He feels a hand move, Whiskey wiping away a tear. 

“I talked to Tango and Ford,” Whiskey says, “Tango said we both had reasons to be upset,” Whiskey continues. 

Kent nods. 

“I think…” Whiskey says, “I should stay at Samwell all four years. Get my degree, graduate, kiss the ice.”

“It’s another year you're not with me,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey sighs, “We have summer.”

“And you can put off talking to your dad about your career for another year,” Kent points out. 

“Should we watch the rest of the all-star game?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent shrugs. Whiskey reaches for the remote and turns on the program already in progress. Jack and the Atlantic are winning 3-1 in the first. 

“It’s not my choice,” Kent rolls over onto his side, “But I like the idea of you graduating.”

Whiskey nods, “We’ll talk more. In general, I promise,” Whiskey says, “I guess just didn’t know how to talk about life plans,” Whiskey bites down on his lip. 

Kent’s brow furrows, “I always forget things change, that it won’t be like this forever.”

“This is really good right now,” Whiskey says.

Kent pulls his head away so he can look at Whiskey, he nods. He looks into Whiskey’s eyes and Whiskey falters. 

“I’m scared,” he says. 

“You’d be dumb not to be,” Kent says, “this league can chew you up and spit you out. But even if that happens, I’m still here for you. Forever.”

Whiskey puts his hands on Kent’s cheeks, “I dreamed about getting to hug you goodnight.”

Kent almost cries, because honestly so did he. 

They raid the minibar and Kent puts some pants on after a while and he rests his head against Whiskey’s chest and they watch the game. 

Kent’s announced as the weekend’s “top entertainer,” a dumb award they’ve started handing out along with tournament MVP. He has never been so happy to not be able to accept an award in person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was pretty angsty but also fluffy. relationships are weird and complicated but at the end of the day they're very very in love

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
